Repeat The Waltz
by Space-Weazel
Summary: Piccolo's past actions come to seek retribution on him, and the price of his hesitation may be more than he can stand.
1. Of Love and Hate

Author's Notes: This first chapter is a prologue. Everything in it is essential in one form or another to fully understand the story. I suggest you read with care. This story was not meant to be completely logical, mainly because I, the writer, am not a logical person at all. Please, if you have any intent to read the story, do not skip this. I have broken the prologue up into two separate chapters, which should make things more bearable.

"You can measure a man by his success as a father, but more so, as a friend." –Unknown

Sometimes the gifts that are worth the most are often placed in the closet, hidden away from view, treated like garbage and kept as such. What happens when children happen to be that gift? What happens when a child, although deformed, is kept away from people for no other reason then spite? The results are never good and rarely acceptable. There was a question of euthanizing, destruction of all that was not 'up to par' with the so-called 'exceptional'. However, there is one thing, and only one that stood against it. "No one has the right to take the life of another." Unfortunately for the deformed, that statement meant nothing but a few precious more months to savor the sweet taste of life in an asylum with underpaid employees who would rather see their patients die than take the time out to actually help them. Yes, life was indeed good. Mrhh. . .

As much as I would personally love to tell you what happened in my life on my own, I figure that such things should be left to the professionals, of which I am not. For your entertainment more than pleasure, my life has been documented and put into a story setting that I am assured that you can understand; knowing human nature, you as well will take part in mocking me and my failures until your heart is content. Mrhh. . .No one ever said life was fair. Mrhh. . .I do not force you to read this, honestly, I don't give a damn what you think. You have free will; use it as I have mine. As I bring this session to an end, my story will begin, and you will have the chance to be exposed to what it is like being Project Eighty-four.

* * *

It smelled of chlorine. The same smell that was always there and always traveled from the 'chambers'. It never failed in the mornings. The air always carried that familiar scent, you could faintly smell it all through this wing in the building, only enough to get lightheaded, never a fatal amount. Most everyone had grown accustomed to the smell, the caretakers especially, then again, they rarely did what was required of them and never spent a second more than they had to in this place. No one did. 

There was something that He failed to tell the people here, yet everyone seemed to know about it, though dared not whisper a word of what they all suspected:

It was in the children.

Undoubted, there was a reason for it as there was a rationale for everything that happened. There was no chance, no variable factor, only truth, greed, bandits of the worst kind. It was called Eighty-Four. Eighty-Four, it was something old in a new wrapper, the old man disguised in a boyish ensemble, a fiend that we all knew too well, but when it came down to unmasking the magician, things seemed a bit beyond the human reach. That is what started it, the reaction, the series of events that would ultimately lead to nothing short of pain and suffering, not for the rich and well to do, but for everyone else, the poor and impoverished. There is to be no middle class, there is no middle to be exact middle, only the far ends of the spectrum, north and south; for that is what they want.

They. The word has so many meanings, yet so few when it comes down to it. They, meaning a group, them, a system of people, a company, an agency. The key word here is group. In it's pure definition, it means an assemblage of persons or objects gathered together; an aggregation. When those words are twisted, formed into something else, something malicious, wonders can happen, Legions can form.

What does man do with a Legion?

He destroys.

So many things to explain in so little time, it's a wonder that anything gets accomplished, but given the right motive, societies can be built upon sand, faith built upon thin air, lives established for no other raison d'être than keeping the other two functioning. True, it is not a glorious existence based upon equality or happiness; merely a machine being that ensures victory against itself. A self-cleansing system where there are no weak, the called 'ill efficient' are disposed of before they can weaken the chain of life and doom the strong to failure. This system is AGENCY. Ablation Genetic Engineering- New Circuit-false Yahveh.

The system is faulty, not completed. It is a system based on illusion, of class, not pure logic, which in essence defeats the purpose of the program, but don't tell them. They already know.

Things have a funny way of fitting together when you least expect them to. Plans that were initially doomed to fail find a way to succeed above all expectations. Plans that were bound to thrive are miserable disappointments, crashing and burning at the worst possible moment. At a certain time, a certain error in the system, production stands still. In this time, the variable run rampant, the maybes and what-ifs are entered into the equation; it is the time when cold logic and theory have their fun on the playground of magic, tearing down piece by piece what was built so laboriously on the backs of men whose only crimes were stupidity and an overactive imagination.

The error is destroying a young boy's dreamland, his innocence.

Oddities and errors. Oddities and errors, the fun of playing God. That is what man's lust is for, the power of omnipotence, the power over life, the power over death, but most of all, the power to change a single moment, a single problem in their life. This problem could be as simple as stopping a decision that lead to adult hardship, or a complexity as deep as reviving a lost parent- whatever the case may be, it is the desire.

All of the people know what they need, if they lack the knowledge of what they want. We all need food, shelter, a defense- but, what if people no longer were required to eat, if they shared similarities to plants, self-produced food, nourishment, beings flourishing on water, essential vitamins when appropriate; to them it was the object of their perfection, their perfect idea to match with a perfectly delusional system.

It started with one. All of this hell started with one man, one mortal man who had a dream. Unlike the dreams of others that have so often been written down in history, his dream was of mirrors, not of freedom, apocalypse, science, nor supreme rule. This man, whose name ought not be mentioned at this date, was a kid at heart, a prudent hard-hearted business man on the exterior, a combination made in heaven for some people, hell for others; everything depended on your status in life.

Multiplication tables are the main focus of the flunkies. Regardless of what you are accustomed to, flunkies no longer hold their original value, instead, they have been promoted to a state higher than most people can ever imagine. The ranks are backwards and twisted, coming from every conceivable direction. Generals would be the equivalent of rookies, privates would be leaders, and such nonsense that would baffle anyone outside AGENCY, even such confuses the likes of LEGION, who as a group were usually confused before AGENCY even showed up. Things never seemed to change much.

In order of importance, the 'Janitors' are near the top of the list, for their job requires an amount of skill that most people lack, there even is an IQ range that is necessary to have in order to even apply for the job. Backwards? To normal people, of course it is, then again, no one called a 'Janitor' was ever thought to be a biological chemist, or anything of or appealing to that nature. After the 'Janitors' come the 'Beggars', then the 'flunkies', 'Legionnaires', 'Smiths', 'Projects', and last of all, and most degrading, 'blueprints'. The titles do not stop there however, each division has a name, each name has a meaning, and each meaning has a specific reference to the person to which it was endowed. For instance, the group of 'fighters and defenders' for lack of proper terminology are called by a group, which is Legion. As the ranks decrease in status, the Legionnaires enter the picture as group leaders, then the Legionites as individual leaders, Lemons as fledglings, and in the lowest class would come the Trainees.

Each group has its own name, as does each social class within the group. There are no equals among them. No one has the same gift, nor do they have the same level of ability, it is not expected. Their appearance is, on the contrary, expected to be that of a Gentleman or Lady. Clean-cut, proper, well dressed when the occasion calls, and always, no matter what, one is expected to act on behalf of their looks, which is always at their best, with no exception. In the way of LEGION and AGENCY, each sector is separated accordingly and broken down from there. Each class: the fighters and defenders, the healers and medics, scavengers and bilge rats, and workers and drones, are separated into completely individualized parts of the same complex, with only a common room which is shared in some instances when absolutely necessary. With the conflicting personalities and overall unease among the groups, they are separated further and new classes added. The healers and medics are further divided into illusionist, doctors, nurses, mages, and magicians, while the fighters and defenders are broken down into names according to their specialty, whether it is a western or eastern fighting and defense style for the root basis; security and guard positions also exist in this class. Scavengers and bilge rats as well as the workers are not as well separated to the extent of the other classes, the reason being their normally calm and pleasant nature in which it is not general for pompous or high-maintenance behavior to be shown, there are always exceptions though.

In general practice, it is customary to place the fighting classes and healing classes of LEGION in areas void of one another, for the sole reason the they are conflicting in nature and competitive in approach when it comes to being in close relation. Being on the mellow side of the lot, workers and scavengers tend to get along, that is until the scavengers fail to wait for the proper time to forage and carry out their duties despite the consequences. Scavengers tend to be kept in solitude with members of their own group to keep an eye on. Now that the issues have been addressed, the groups of primary classes are assembled as follows: Fighters and drones, healers and workers, Scavengers and rats. This order has proven to be the most beneficial arrangement, for the healers in general are manipulative and would sooner influence the drones than the workers, who are more resistant to temptation and far less programmable. The scavengers and rats alike are crass enough that they are apt to get along rather well. Truth be known, the reason why workers and fighter were pitted together is a very austere one, exceedingly basic. The fighting class and working class are one and the same, it is merely training that separated them, for their physical appearance is much the same, due to the equivalent amount of work generated by both.

For practice, let the rules of physics not apply for one moment in time. What would happen to civilization if the intelligent beings, both human and alien alike could become 'super beings', if a flame no longer illuminated the room, or anything else for that matter?

What would happen if illusion replaced reality?

Imagine the catastrophe that would occur if there were no rules. When your actions had no effect, when there was a gap in time where nobody could move forward and nobody could move back, but everybody could move through. Things that were killed for in order to be protected, dangerous things, forbidden things that the public eye had it been possible, would have been protected from. These things are not monsters, not daemons of the night, not even grand and authoritative lords, kingpins, or fat cats.

Once was it said that the most precious things came in small packages. Whoever said that deserves his rightful credit, for that is one of the founding statements that inspired a dream in which a nightmare existed. Amazing it is how something as simple as a word or phrase can be the catalyst for an empire. One word will change things. Separate the men from the boys, boys from the animals, animals from the Projects. Many traveled far and wide to lean of the word that would set them all free. Irony tends to be cruel, for every man and woman knows what it is they are so desperately searching for, in verity, they obtained it, the word, before they even knew how to speak. It is one of the first words uttered to you while you are still living inside your mother's womb, and will be one of the last, if you are lucky, you will ever hear.

People claim they can live successful and happy lives without this word, lives full of ambitious dreaming that becomes all they ever wanted in life. They lie.

Words, over the years have been called many things, empty, consequential, prophetic, and even histrionic. With all the definitions the world has to offer, all the grammatical rules, stages, and errors, there is not one that can justly delineate the single, seemingly idiotic to those who are blunt of heart, word that means so much and has so much value, that it has soared above the average psyche and directly into the hands of the disabled, for they will be the ones who tell all that there ever is to know.

Like so many other things, this tale is about words. Words and dreams, sometimes dreams of words, no one really knows for sure, not even the maker of the story himself. The question stands, and that question is:

What if?

Of all the things one has to read and all the questions one has to ask, none stands out, none describe, portray a persons' thoughts better than: What if. Without a doubt, if that single phrase, question did not exist, then all the modern marvels that civilization as a whole has come to love, would not be in existence. There would be no airplane, no light bulb, no automobile, odds are that a majority of the items that people take for granted would no longer be here and life as it is known, would never be.

Words.

Dreams.

Power.

Life.

Twisted tales lie in a single book, a single chapter of which only a page makes all the difference in the world. If one can stand to read a storybook, not one of faerie tales or one of magic and elves, but one of a crude reality shrouded in illusion of mankind, then perhaps one has found what is most important. The diamond among the cast stones and the key in a room of locked doors, perhaps that is what this story will be, perhaps not. The issue truly never was to be discussed, only understood, even that fact is doubtable.

Welcome to LEGION, for we are many. Although. . .There are certain steps that must be taken before anyone can see what this is about. To solve a problem, often it is required that you re-examine the root of it and work your way up from there. That same basic idea is what is crucial here. In order to reach a level of appreciation for the job that has been done, you must first figure out what started the process.

Going back to the beginning, a yarn should be told. Like all good accounts, it involves a young boy, a hero, and a villain. Typecast? Insipid? Danse macabre? Everything is erratic; no one knows for sure- then again. . .The only path that leads to this knowledge would be reading, learning.

If you have not read this, then it is time you begun!

* * *

Prologue- 

Chlorine air, sewage waters, poisoned plants, toxic soil. It was all so beautiful, but yet at the same time it was a shame, a mockery of life and everything affiliated with it. Devil's City was a steel wasteland, bathed in filth and sold as gold to all those who had eyes to see, but made a fool of themselves and chose not to use them. Everyone inside knew when this conurbation was built, but no one would recall to an outsider, for there was no need to share the information with those who least deserved it- especially those who were known to inhabit Satan City, their rival, and their twin.

To give an accurate time of when the city was built would be near impossible. Like in the plot of a great movie, there is one thing that everybody knows happened, but are unable to inform as to when. Some may say that the city was built over night; some recall the old litany "Rome wasn't built in a day." The entire ordeal was never settled, people soon came to accept that the place existed and that was good enough for them. Day in and day out, the people wandered the streets, mindlessly, like programmed machines taking out tasks. The men, stereotypically went to work each day at varying times, as did the women, the children went to schools, the dogs fetched the morning paper and ripped it to shreds. Things were as they were expected to be. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary seemed to subsist here, except for a few minor details.

Devil's City was not a place of color, or of cheer. It has, and always will be an industrial city, built for machines, technology, as it is known. Machines that merely let humans and the likes of them inhabit their world. Majorities of the populace deny that fact because of pride. They think that for the one reason that man built machine that it is impossible to be ruled by one. Such foolishness is what formed a study foundation for the civilization that existed here, in hell. In the oblique viewpoint, it is possible to say that the place was grayscale, colorblind, the color of iron and steel. Even the foliage seemed dim, faded, like the very essence had been sapped out of it.

Store displays showed fashionable clothes, in tune with the atmosphere, the color of the season was always black, white, or gray. No one seemed to question it, aloud. Streets, sidewalks, back alleys, whatever your mind can invoke, every road lead, inevitably, to nowhere; every path, a circle, so no one could progress, everyone had to stay where they were, like good drudges. The system had not failed for a number of years. Perhaps soon the great 'empire' that was would shortly meet its end to a quite atypical fellow. The said statement, like so many others are, at this time, uncertain. Life is a game after all, a game in which the rules are subject to change at any given moment. Unfair? Purely.

Nobody ever said life was fair.

As the atmosphere moved to choke the life out of anyone and thing that existed, the rain came. Rain, in this place, was not the slight drizzle, or even hard, piercing drops that people have become so accustomed to. This rain was like diluted acid, burning, thundering like the roar of a million angry sinners unleashing their rage upon the world, nothing sort of unconditional malice, detestation in the earth itself. In the blink of an eye, the municipality was drowned under a flood of rainwater. Miniature rivers formed on the brick roads, washing away loose fliers, aluminum cans, garbage of any and all sorts. From the sky, it was an amazing sight, although morose. The roads appeared fluid, near graceful, a concrete dancer moving to the rhythm of life, which gave a sense of morbid beauty to the cadaverous.

There still is a place on the far side of town, where only foolhardy teenagers, who took the liberty of calling themselves daredevils, cared to roam. A set of abandoned, run-down warehouses existed on the west side, along with a preponderance of the elder brick buildings that were sooner forgotten than renovated. The grand total of establishments were no larger in number than twenty, the piles of rubble far outnumbered the still standing. Among those figures, only six were of any consequence. Three of them were storehouses, one was, by the city's standards, an ancient apartment complex, the other two were without definition. They looked naught more than the common store; dingy, raided display racks could be seen from broken windows. Fragments of glass littered the floor along with bits and pieces of metal- insignificance to the eye untrained. If one were to look further, behind the molded carpets, below the settled groundwork, the worth of platinum could be found, a buried treasure under the grit, so to speak. Further still, behind closed doors, hidden deeper within, laid nothing short of death. Years of being defunct had fashioned a new breed of refuse, something man had not the audacity to claim.

Corpses, they walked the streets when it was not raining. During the years that certain institutions, factories had been in operation, death seemed to become more and more acceptable. Not once should it be expected for an actual dead body to become animated and walk among the living, instead people torn and tattered from life in labor patrol the streets as average citizens, though it is apparent from their lifeless eyes that something got to them. Be the something that is spoken of ghastly in nature and disturbing to the moral center of the individual, or possibly nothing more than repetitive task that are known to drain a person of youth, the fact still remains. Something was wrong, from the looks of things, something had been awry far too long. Water could fix everything.

Things started winding down as the day came to a slow, but steady end. In a manner similar to that of a timed race, people scurried along the streets into their dwellings, to work, anywhere as long as it was inside. Those last few scattered about like roaches exposed to light, eventually finding a place for them as well. The entire ordeal lasted no more than an hour, after it seemed, the city shut down. House lights dimmed, office lights were few and far in between, the street lights shown radiant, light a lighthouse in the midst of a raging storm. Even through all this, the rain still persisted and showed no signs of weakening, only continuing, conquering the land and sky as the great gods of folklore are said to have.

No matter where you looked, finding a single person on the streets after dark was a rarity during the week, telling all who could sense that things were unnatural. On the other hand, there would always be one person, in exact terms, creature out prowling around, keeping hidden from view. Fear, pride, self-righteousness, whatever inspired it, or rather he, to keep away from the rest of society was not questioned, mainly because no one cared to have a beast roaming around in public where he could be seen. Taking the bull hearted way out, mothers and fathers alike told their children nothing other than the standard "Do not talk to strangers" policy and nothing more was made of him. The way he liked it.

While families enjoyed a dinnertime, he would make practice of doing his business, taking care of things that needed it, paying bills, getting food, what all are required to do. Telling from his methods, he was not monstrous in approach, nor was he exempt from taxes or matters such as, simply a creature of the earth who was not readily accepted, a creature with a barcode, mass produced trash with a name. He was, and always will be, a LEGION castaway.

Time and hopes changed, the future became the past with every ephemeral second, and still, conditions did not change, on the surface level at any rate. The hearts of those living in Devil's City are and will always be pallid, icy, hence the welcoming title of "Birthplace of Malice, Home of Lost Souls." In place of something settling, like 'Land of Adventure' or 'Insurer of the Industrialized Future' that crude title was given. It did not do wonders for tourism.

Names aside, the city did well for itself; it always had more of a small village feel to it anyway. People looked out for each other, though it was not always evident, meetings were called regularly to discuss issues, outlanders, and the topics of the new term. Like most villages are in attitude, Devil's City also did not welcome foreigners. Anything outside their make believe realm of 'perfection' was shunned, being open-minded was frowned upon, needless to say, it was a racist community. Black, white, red, nearly all normal pigments of skin for Homo sapiens were accepted, green, blue, orange, anything other than were crassly rejected and shunned; anthropomorphic beings were near fictional in the area. People were known to be so close-knit that many persons had been accused of being inbred. These were not beautiful people.

In which humanity is topsy-turvy.

He saw nothing through the tan blindfold that shielded what was left of his eyes, even if it had been removed, nothing would have come into sight, only a white world, shrouded in the same white fog, like an endless winter. Be it to conserve his energy for more practical purposes, or that he was simply enjoying the cold breath of a late fall eve whilst it rained, no one had the right to say for sure, and it was beyond a doubt that he would never speak a word to anyone. Perched high upon the roof of that old warehouse, he delighted himself in crouching in the rain. Getting his clothes wet was not of any consequence to him, the black full-length coat he had tailored for himself was mostly waterproof, not a cheap piece of material.

Imitating a gargoyle, he leaned over the edge of the building ever so slightly, wet, gray hair cropped short to stay out of his way dripped water down the front of his face, but it was near impossible to tell with the rain pounding down like it was. Hints of green skin poked through his otherwise pasty complexion, the sun was obviously not his friend, for he could virtually put any albino being to unreserved shame. His breath came slowly, slowly, as though nothing in this dimension or the next had any aspiring hopes to burden him. By the forming smirk on his otherwise dull face, he could look happy, or he could be recalling some old tale from his memory, not that it would matter. The way things had been going, he would disappear completely before the sun rose, only to come out when everything was cold, dark. In light of popular belief, this man was far from vampric in nature or belief, only reclusive, wanting nothing more than to leave people alone and be left alone himself.

Claws. Horrible deformed remnants of what should have been hands. The things looked as though they had been victims of elephantiasis as far as size went, nothing more however. The palm of a single hand could have been reasonably eight inches across, extreme even for a person affected by gigantism, such as he was. For all their size, his hands had little feeling in them, barely enough to tell hot from cold, definitely not enough to read Braille, or any other tasks that he would find beneficial. Yet, he never complained, he had hands, that is all he could have asked for, all he wanted.

With a slight sneer, he looked up for the first time this night. As though on queue, the rain suddenly stopped its assault upon the ground and the dark sky cleared, an ashen one replacing it. Shaking his head, water flying off from his hair, he stood up to his full height, straightening his back out, popping joints back into alignment, flexing his fingers, doing the routine he worked out for himself all those years ago to prevent him from stiffening up like rigor mortis had struck him. As he turned around and walked, he counted his steps and stretched his arms above his head, tilting them to the right, left, then right again before stopping at fifteen paces and turning to his right. Head bowed, he stood there, arms crossed over his chest- meditating on the decision before him, smirk still on his lips, which may or may not have been a good sign for him. Infatuated with the youthful belief of immortality, he jumped off the roof, falling unorthodoxly into a collection of soggy cardboard boxes like a rag doll, then hopping to his feet, pretending nothing happened and praying that no one saw him. Judging by the look on his face, he was somewhat pleased with himself for not landing face-first on the cement, or anything equally as hard or nasty.

Brushing himself off lightly, he pricked a pointed ear up from a drooped position and listened. Pots and pans were clinging together as they were thrown into the sink for washing, babies howled as mothers anxiously tried to soothe them, and without fail the rain never ceased, and no one was outside, not that he could hear anyway. Guessing the coast was clear, he reached out with his left hand to find the wall, while his right was extended in front of him to find any objects in his immediate path. Boots clicked upon the sidewalk as he continued on at a relatively fast pace, slowing down only when he miscalculated the distance from one point to another and had to figure out where he was.

The rain guided him, helped him. Clicking off mailboxes, tapping on cars, roofs, phone booths, the entire world as far as he was concerned was put on display for him on a map of sound. His steps had picked up more of a bounce tonight than there had been in a long while. True, while rain was frequent in this area, segregationists were rampant the farther north you went. Even though he could fend for himself in general, one man against a multitude, the odds were not in his favor.

Sighing, he stopped when his hands brushed against a potted plant. He felt leaves when he was expecting pine needles. After all this time, he had the navigating skills of a dead gnat. Placing his hands at his side, he walked on up north, taking slow, balanced steps to avoid humiliating himself by tripping over his own two feet. A barrage of smells assailed him, the one and only bread factory of the metropolis being the strongest of them; it even overpowered the common smell of chlorine, sewage, and rain that was something beyond a doubt remarkable.

"Seven." The single word escaped his chapped lips. From that word alone, you could tell he had a deep voice, baritone yet soft; a trace of an edge in his tone.

He let his mind drift with the scent of the baked bread. Figuring it was safe to relax, he eased up, steps became less and less thought out, more sinuous, elegant. A smile, though small, flashed across his face for the briefest instant before he returned to a smirk, of which faded to a blank stare and he stopped in his tracks, body still as a set lead pipe, fingers of claws splayed out.

Someone was following him.

Footsteps kept following behind him subsequently when he stopped. Staying petrified to the spot, he stayed tuned into the steps. From what he could tell, this person was big, around his height possibly, but a great deal heavier. Cocking his head to the side, he prepared to make a mad sprint across town, now was not the time for him to stand his ground, not after his medicine ran out, he was as good as useless now as far as defending himself went. The joints in his hands began to stiffen and burn when he tried to move them, a token he received from genetics. At a leisurely pace he started walking again, keeping his stride long, but slow, all the while listening like his life depended on his hearing, and it did, to an extent. Someone kept following him, and was getting close, still, he kept moving slowly.

A hand brushed against his coat, not in a grasping way, just a gentle touch- it was too much. Without any further warning, he took off like a jackrabbit, running as fast as he possibly could down the street, taking sharp turns, alleys, anything that he thought would help him on his way. Now that the rain was gone, finding things became ten times harder for him, the only thing left to lead him was his faded memory of the city and where the streets lead.

Mind scrambling to invoke an answer, he kept on, nearly tripping over his own two feet every other step. Why anyone would be out here past nine in the evening was beyond him, especially around here on a school night, it was close to unheard of. As a general rule most people did not travel later at night, it was the time the 'off-color' people had to do their business, even then, they kept to their corners of the world, not out on the streets where everyone could see.

Shaking the thought off, he went back to trying to figure where he was. The smell of bread was gone, he had passed it a long time ago, in its place was the same bleach smell that always was there. Grimacing he pushed on, taking a last turn. If he had any luck whatsoever, he had found his makeshift shelter. Moving slowly till he found a wall, he kept at attention, seeking running footsteps splashing through the water. There was none. Nothing. Not a sound except the soft rumble of thunder overhead. Exhaling noisily, he straightened his clothes and headed down the street, scanning the wall with his right hand like nothing had happened. He was too paranoid for his own good. Recalling his little romp, he managed to chuckle at himself. Pausing when his hands came across a door, he felt the engravement it carefully before moving on.

The words "No Daimao" were carved deep into the wood.

Something splashed behind him. Whipping around to face the sound, he backed away warily. His movements were jerky, unsettled, machinelike. Thunder roared overhead, imitating a great lion's roar, the sound caused him to jump. Collecting himself he took a deep breath and turned back around, silently ridiculing himself for every last movement he made. With the next step he took, he met someone face-to-face, nose-to-nose. His expression resembled a deer in the headlights while his mind fried on the spot, leaving him less than able to communicate, much less run.

Subtle hints of eucalyptus and ivory soap drifted through the air, causing him negligible distress, yet somehow comforting him at the same time. The smell was familiar, like home, a memory long since past. Taking a few steps back to distance himself from the person, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the left then right.

"Mrhh. . ." A guttural sound, one without meaning or explanation, a tic to all those who knew not what to call it; for him, it was the only sound he dared to make.

A rough silence existed, a stillness that was only disrupted by the occasion growl from the heavens and undertone of the citizens as they spied from their locked windows, becoming similar to vermin in their conduct. The beady eyes peering upon them could have overwhelmed even the bravest of warriors, yet somehow they stood still, immune. Every window, there was a person stationed there, a guard to the invisible fortress that was to be protected with their very lives if such was called upon.

"Why do you run from me?" The stern tone pierced the silence like a thousand angry arrows from the past returning to claim the lives they missed. In that cold baritone voice, so much like his own, something astringent and irate survived; still, there was indication of more, something unreadable.

Lips parted, he searched for an answer to a question that both of them were asking 'Who are you?' They dropped into another silence as he looked to the ground. Tails of a coat, a cape, something thrashed about as the wind picked up, the scent of eucalyptus becoming stronger as it occurred. A jolt of electricity should have struck his heart at that very instant; snapping his neck up he tried to meet he opposing person's gaze, gritting his teeth all the while. Naming the voice made all the difference in the world, it was the distinction between knowing yourself and knowing nothing for him. Following what foolish wisdom he had, silence remained a virtue obeyed.

The man's onyx eyes visibly narrowed as he took a gait forward, keeping his shoulders squared, head even to avoid having to move to look down at the creature before him. His presence was imposing, commanding of your attention, the presence of a great leader, respected and feared.

Padded footsteps touched ground, deeming it sacred, brilliant. Energy dropped from the air, leaving them in the presence of death, unshielded, unaware of what was and what is to be. As if all were right, the storm stopped slowly, slowly; thunder cowered, lightning ceased, if on command, the mountains themselves would bow. There was a time where everything ceased. Neither the wind blew nor the earth quaked, the heavens themselves paid their due respect at this single moment, the instance in which it begins.

A package concealed in brown paper, bound by twine, water deprived and warm as hearts blood was forcibly yet gently pressed into the blind man's chest and a hand, calloused and worn brushed against his unshielded face, making his expression change instantaneously. Fingers drew upwards to clutch the package before it fell to the ground, soiled. Twisted images of claws ticked the paper's surface, seeing the shaped from within. A smile, sullen, but not without hope passed his lips before he turned to catch the man before his back disappeared into the arising fog, never to be seen again. So many questions there were to ask, and so many answers went silent in the time, comparable to how night gives birth to day, day to night, an unending circle throughout all time.

"Even you should have remembered your own guardian." The voice was a rumbling baritone, but nevertheless pleasurable to the ears, called, cutting the silence, a knife through warm butter, art in words. The light flutter of flowing garments whispered for a moment before fading away, becoming part of city life, part of the accusing eyes, pointing fingers.

He kept his peace, till the music of the mans steps all but died out to the washing dishes, tapping pencils, the humans. The noise had returned, deafening and merciless, as it always had been before perfection's arrival and departure.

Swallowing the words gingerly, holding them in, letting them play in his head like the great melodies of days, ages, long since past, he barely brought himself to open his mouth, to pollute the once-was. Conversely, only one word would stay in his mind, welded into his very frame. "Guardian"

The title of "Son" would never be awarded to him, not even when the stars faded, and angels gathered in the ethereal twilight to watch the world end.

With another breath, he regained his appearance, shoulders squared off, back arrow straight, and head held parallel, he put on a wry smile, mocking confidence that had died only an instance ago.

"I_ did_ remember"

Nothing remained to be done, everything remained to be said, the faulty system kept its balance. Even with graces cast to the wind and dreams shattered, he returned to a place that we all know so well, a place called home. As his door shut and lights dimmed, the sun peeked over the horizon, starting a new day with new possibilities, and, most of all, newfound hope.


	2. Into the Tide

**Author's Notes:** I thank everyone who commented on this last piece. Your response is priceless to me. A warning for all of those who have a certain dislike for darker tales, this is not the fiction for you. If the aforementioned is the case, then I suggest you look up a nice comedy to sate yourself.

_"Parents learn a lot from their children about coping with life."_  
Muriel Spark

**Into The Tide, Into the Eye.**

His breath was drawn slowly, calmly, for he knew that this would be the end of it all. Tomorrow held the promise of a new dawn, of a day undisturbed by the petty needs of men, of the nauseating righteousness of bigots, arrogant and on high, removed from what little sense of reality wealth, power can bestow upon them. Silently, he listened to the sound of pouring rain he loved, that gentle sigh that quivers from the earth herself, like saltwater tears, stinging, yet gentle as dew on the grass. The limestone reflected it all. The harmony of a million droplets of water cascading down water-carved sculptures within the stone himself put a faint smile on his otherwise grim, sound lips.

Lightning flashed in the distance as thunder followed for an encore, a bass voice amidst the mouse soprano, rumbling, but in essence, beauty. Trees of all ilk, nature, and size were spread out in his territory, everything from the quaking aspen to the sturdy oak, even the prospering maple leaf- his. With a slight sigh and a heave of the chest, his position in he solitude retreat of his cavern refuge changed to an open front seat to the forest rain. Calloused hands gripped ever so slightly the ledge of his home, a balcony for anyone who had the eye to see and mind to believe.

The scenery was exquisite. Nothing was hidden from view, neither the sky, nor the redwoods great of the west, the gray sky shone in all its muted glory, but foremost, one thing had his attention, much to his antipathy. Offsetting the beauty, the grace of the kingdom before him, was a moth among butterflies, a place drained of color, of life, leaving an exoskeleton of a place never quite there, but always glaringly in sight. Turning dark eyes aside to spare himself from once more reviving unnecessary thoughts, ideas that should have been abandoned, he sought out insects in the colony of insects that apparently had the utmost interest in his dwelling. He paused, even if momentarily, watching the creatures crawl about, each acting mechanically, as though a predisposition to do no more than collect and return were guiding them. In a way, it was masterful. Each being had its own place, its own duty, never to feel lost or alone, however, nothing was to chance. A soldier would never become a leader of the colony, nor the queen take her place as a worker.

His brow knit. Gods, even the insects reminded him of things best left to the past, horrible, strange, yet wondrous things. Flashing a half smile, he stood, the wind picking up as if on queue to strike his attire, pulling it out from him like a flag caught in the hurricane gale, ripping, tearing away at the fabric with rubber teeth that were doomed to fail. Pained droplets of water spotted his gi, turning the royal color darker, near back. It was refreshing, the cool against his skin, the current of air sweeping across high cheeks, drying them almost instantly. Many may have once questioned him for choosing to reside out here, many may have thought it foolhardy to live so depraved, but then, they never saw beyond their steel boxes and iron-sided war machines. The beauty of a flower and of nature's fury would yet again be missed by the eyes of man half-breed alike.

In silence he bowed his head, letting himself dry and be drenched at the same time. Understanding existed in the quietness, it always had for him. Sometimes the most important of all knowledge comes from the sanctity of ones own mind when all is calm, all is right. The lightning storm retreated farther away as if conducted by the keys of a classical piano, each note drawing it beyond the two cities which it threatened to devastate only minutes ago. Taking his turban off, dropping it to the ground as an object of no more importance than the very dirt he stood upon, he lifted his head, soft lips parted ever so slightly, eyes half-lidded, face a picture of elegance in serenity, cold, barren, yet somehow gentle, pleasant to the eyes.

Squaring his shoulders off, retaining that sense of regality he would never quite loose touch of, he took to the sky slowly, more hovering at first than achieving actual flight. Soon enough he would be far from the rock base he came to know as home, past the waterfalls so rumbling, clear of the willow and oak, starfire and rose petals that grew wild. His paradise surrendered for the concrete steps and stonemasons.

Sunlight dimmed, the already graying sky darkened, blue tint adding a reflective mood to all that they heavens claimed to the night. Soon the lights would turn on. Light of all colors, all shapes, all intensities; a bombardment of phantasm to shock the body and render the mind into a gelatinous mess in awe. Apartments, housing, cemetery, and business, all alike shared the plot of land shamefully dubbed Satan City. The name in itself was a waste; a foolish attempt of man to go on living long after his time had set. The name would forever more bother him, after witnessing the character of the man himself, so cowardly and bluffing, too arrogant and shameful to see past his own head, much less out to the world; but they say time and tide changes a person, and in the words of a man oblivious to his own wisdom 'everybody deserves a second chance.' Regardless, he could not quite bring himself to believe this on the best of days.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of such pessimistic thoughts he proceeded, keeping high enough to not draw unneeded attention of company most unwanted. He saw the house in the distance, keen eyes stripping it of every last detail as he drew closer. It was not a gaudy place, palatial or jewel-incrusted, but on the contrary a little two-story place, sturdily built and painted the color of angel feathers. From memory he recollected the fine wooden inside, mahogany, cherry, ebony, some that he even cut himself as a favor not so long ago. Faint memories of pictures on the walls, of books adorning shelves that were carved into the walls, of a marble fireplace, by far the nicest thing in the dwelling flowed back to him like leaves caught upon a mid-summer's breeze.

They loved that house, they not including him of course, but that was hardly the point. They were happy, safe; sound, with the warmth and awareness that there was always someone out there watching them, their own personal 'angel' to serve as guardian of the family. Perhaps such was a nice thought, enough to kindle a little light in the hearts of all who possessed such, or perhaps it was a mere burden, one they could readily do without. Whatever the case was, he would know it in time. Everything came in due time, no sooner, no later. The system works after all.

Drawing upon the house so secluded from the rest of the city, he touched down, feet lighter than a feather upon the ground, barely disturbing the grass from its nighttime slumber. Pausing, standing just away from the window's gaze, he looked in, watching the fire cackle and a small female sit in front of it, relaxing peacefully on a flaxen couch with book in hand and glass of tea by side. Life was good to them; it was a blessing on both parties.

Stepping ever closer, feet guided on invisible wings, he slid towards the cracked window, opening it wide, and slipping in soundlessly, with only the gust of wind and scent of rain and grass to give him away. The woman turned her head, eyes questioning the cold, the open glass before setting her bookmark in place and returning the book to the coffee table. He kept in the shadows, in the corner, visible to all who happened to look in that direction and unseen by all those preoccupied with past acts of his.

"Videl" His voice struck the air sharper than the forked tongues of the fireplace ever could.

She jumped, body set rigid for a moment before realization set in, putting her in a gentle ease. Brushing a few strands of onyx hair out of her still fair, maiden-like face she smiled, looking like the girl she was all those years ago.

"Piccolo, what brings you here?" She closed the window with minor difficulty to get it to finally come down all the way.

Tilting his head slightly, adding to the effect of his cleanly folded arms and arrow-straight back, he managed a stiff smirk. "Am I not allowed to see old friends?" Despite his intent, his words for all purposes were frozen in ice, cold, sharp, hinting at pride and humility at the same time, something only he had mastered to this date.

A chill traveled down her spine at the sound of his words. True, though she knew all too well that Piccolo was never to be a threat to her or her family, his presence, was stunning to the mind, his attitude boggling it further.

Wetting her lips she shook her head in confidence as she tended to the potpourri pieces that fell out of the container by the window that not even Piccolo quite missed in his invasion.

"You're always welcome here, it's just." She paused, sighing and leaning her shoulder against the mahogany wall. " You never seem to come around here that often anymore." Words were placed carefully, to avoid adding insult to possible injury.

Silence existed between them, a deathly one only disturbed by the fire and the ironic cricket chirping in the yard.

"Anyhow" Videl broke the quiet before one of them grew unnerved. "I suppose you came to see Gohan? He misses you, y'know?" Placing a hand on her hip she chuckled to herself before meeting Piccolo's eyes with her blue ones.

He nodded once and looked to the staircase, the one he helped carve himself.

" . . .I'll get him, have a seat will you?" Brushing imaginary dirt off her blouse, she set off up the stairs, into her husband's domain where nothing was safe from the rustling of papers to be graded and the red pen that marked the follies of many a young student.

Closing his eyes, shoulders drooping faintly, he contented himself to revert to the outdoors, taking the backdoor out to the porch and looking towards the city in all its glory. With eyes closed he could almost hear the ocean in the distance, smell the pine trees of the forest, of the mountains so far away sight barely beseeched their presence. In his mind, the roar of the tide against rocks took place of cars howling, the sea salt smell replaced the sewers, the sand conquered the blacktop. It was all right in him.

The person standing in the doorway only smiled that infamous family smile and watched him, taking everything in from the aroma of dried rain and wilderness, mixed with the normal eucalyptus, the flow of his cape when picked up to dance upon the occasional zephyr. He would forever be a Grecian statue among men from those child eyes.

"Hey." The common upbeat tone of his voice never faded over the years, same for his features, compliments to his father's line.

Piccolo turned slightly, eyes peering past his shoulder to the figure moving to his side. Inwardly he wore a Cheshire grin, though outside his lips were pressed into a stoic line, devoid of emotions of man, yet full of his won in their right.

Gaze never wavering; he kept an eagle's eye on the man, studying him like all those years ago. Saddened his eyes gave him away. His former student was growing older. Though the trivial downward pull of his features barely gave him off to being just past three decades old, he noticed immediately, the childhood version of the man permanently burned in his mind for all eternity.

Placing a strong hand on Piccolo's shoulder and giving it a squeeze, Gohan cocked his head to the side, eyes wide, so full of youth and wonder that it was almost purely undeserved for the occasion. Turning his head to look straightforward, Piccolo rolled his shoulders, spine following in the wave movement, lending him a feline quality.

Taking unspoken hints, the younger man backed off, taking a seat in a patio chair after dumping the water from it. Hands clasped across his chest, he reclined to the farthest extent, pushing the front legs of the furniture off the ground, and he raised his eyebrows before doing the ritual sighing and closing his eyes.

"So?" Gohan spoke in a patient tone and pushed his chair back onto all four legs.

"Mhh?" The question beckoned Piccolo to turn halfway around to face him.

Answer unproclaimed, Gohan vaguely opened an eye. "You know what I mean."

Silence.

"Piccolo?"

Nothing but the settling creak of the house replied.

Gohan nodded, taking all things into account and keeping his mouth preoccupied by other discussion to avoid brining up any more stalemate topics.

So there the two resided. One talking, one listening, both fining composure and stillness in the words that both were starting to drown out. It continued on like this for an hour's time. The conversation never passing from one to another, with exception to the occasional "Mmhmm" and "Hmm" Piccolo cared to offer.

Amidst the rambling, one inadvertent reared its head. " . . .So, how is he?"

Before Gohan could reclaim the words, working them into something dismissible, he was silenced by a gaze and most surprising . . .An actual smile, though remorseful in nature, a smile nonetheless.

"Fine. His answer was strained, caught in the growing lump that resided in his throat, slowly choking him from the inside.

"Really? That. . . That's good." His tone was soft, introverted.

Piccolo nodded in agreement.

The wind picked up again, carrying leftover drops of water to them, laying the ground with a mist as the fog began to roll in and temperatures finally drop. The unnatural silence resumed, conquering with the ferocity of Alexander and his great armies of old. Thunder cackled over head, mocking their moment, their let down guard that welcomed him back into their house. Thunder rumbled to the rhythm of war drums only the forces heard. The sky blackened like Indian ink, sweeping over the land like an indomitable sovereign imposing his will relentlessly and saving no mercy for the weak or ill suited.

Lightening flashed above, the blinding false daylight unleashed for a split second, it was long enough. In that time, Piccolo disappeared, cast to the darkness, in essence, becoming darkness himself. No trace of ivory cape nor flash of emerald skin showed where it once was, but the tender scent of eucalyptus leaves that were all but lost to the rain now, just as a mute love was.

_"Our children are watching us live, and what we ARE shouts louder than anything we can say."_  
Wilferd A. Peterson


	3. This House Is Not A Home

Authors Notes: Many Apologies to the time it has taken to update. It's been a harder year than most, filled with countless distractions and my susceptibility to them. Please enjoy

Repeat Waltz: The Third Step

This House is not a home.

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely and those who have power are unwilling to share It." -Lord Acton, 1887

He grinned.

The days crawled by as serpents slither upon the their bellies, weighed down by every force that conjured itself to arise when they appeared. Whether a great amount of time had passed or merely an hours wake, he had not the knowledge, for each second stretched itself into years, hours into millennia, and the days into some horrendous form of punishment that not even the very bowels of hell itself had yet to summon upon man. In a way, it was pleasant, the knowledge that time was taking its course, that you could not stop it for all the begging and pleading that your lips had to deliver; things were to be as they were, and in that, harmony, however strenuous, continued in place of discord.

The building in which he chose to reside was ramshackled, a drudgery to the senses, assaulting them all with the force of a great army. The 'slums' they called it, but it had always remained a questionable process to take the word of a citizen for what it was around here, for one mans slum was another's mansion, and even the mansions had little to offer when compared to the love that a peasant family had to offer in their humble abodes. It was all a kind of twisted circle. The wealthy had it all, not the moon, nor the stars, nor any body of the heavens was beyond the grasping hands that they barely had restraint to keep under control; while on the other hand, those who would never have that which false advertising promoted found happiness in unity, in others like them who shared a like compassion.

While the people had their companions, each class to its own, each dwelling to its own, there would remain some that had neither family nor enemy alike. They are the things that make you feel self-righteous when donations are taking, as though you are actually doing more than funding men's pockets when you drop in your coins to the charities. In essence, that is what leads to the forming of the city; pity, remorse, a sense of superiority to another by giving snippy offerings to people who are slightly worse off than you are. Such is humanity, a brutal display of hidden malice and prejudice.

It takes a child to see through these things, and all is lost when the children are hushed into haughty, proud, spoiled, timid, flighty creatures, ready to inflict pain at a moment notice, but fear when pain comes to them; little adults already.

Those who are considered unworthy do not take residence in the slums, but truly the 'false slums' which are tightly hidden within the steel jungle that had been forged on their backs, not those of who rule the city; history repeats itself yet again. They are the leather-skinned 'Cretans', the workhorses, the slaves of a modern society trying to revive old practices, and neither flaxen hair, height, nor any physical quality they had to offer would save them from a race's reputation.

These are the things that one sees in the night as a child. They are the supposed monsters that hide under your bed awaiting your presence to sing their woeful songs to lull you into a sleep, and in that way consume your mind with their stories that no on shall go onto tell after their passing. Sometimes they are the great apes that are rumored to live in the woods, mimicking those that they wish to be the most, walking on two feet as they always have and being accused for doing so, even hunted for their man-given abilities. An possibly, just possibly they run to the sea, scared to peek above the surface for penalty of death or whatever cruelties that can be made for an 'inhuman' who does not fit the stereotype.

The whole idea is laughable. As a wise man once said "A few drops of dirty water will not make the entire ocean dirty". Apparently such was forgotten after his passing, yet a few still hang onto the truth, taking it for face value. They are the most precious of all.

Everyone has their dreams. Some want to marry and have children, some wish to play music before great courts, while others would love to teach pupils their life lessons, and others wish to do no more than to love and be loved in return. They say animals, things that distinctly are not of the Homo Sapiens Sapiens race, are not capable of feeling the same things, having the same goals as they are, and in that, arrogance and ignorance shines its brightest, for who is to say a cat cannot feel remorse when her kittens die, or a rat cannot die of depression when removed from its family?

However, in this case, it was naught. Nothing caused this downfall; this scouring that left him feeling more befouled than before. It was as a disease, a ravaging sickness that struck at his heart, tearing it apart string by string in the very spirit of sadomasochism. Such pain is not soon forgotten and remembered in an instant. For that reason, he ran far into the concrete trees and iron-sided canyons to escape from the gentle fern and soothing waterfalls. A fair choice it was not, but when in fear, the mind does not stop to reason; it relies on instinct for guidance. Instinct can kill you.

And so here in minds eye of a had-been boy he sits, staring at the same walls that he allegedly stared at yesterday, and all the years before. The sight was not a new one; it never had been, in all honesty. Walls all look alike with your eyes closed and your deadened palms grazing them gently. That was the home he knew, the one he claimed as his own when all that beseeched it before condemned it. It was all fine, nothing was out of order. The barren walls, devoid of covering to shield its plaster frame, he paid no heed to their shape, content merely that they managed to stand night after night. In essence, that is all one can rally hope for, and in light of the success, he had no mouth to speak ill of the continuous miracle, and less of a mind to question it.

Still, it bothered him. The knowledge of what was and what he perceived. Forever it could hang upon his back as a burden of vanity, a tiny thing that increased its weight ten fold when listened to, and whose claws became ever the more insidious and vile the more you worried yourself about them. It was that pang, that miniscule thing that had slowly cracked his skull to reveal what his innermost thoughts were. People of all creeds often thought him a lunatic for wondering what exact color the walls of his dwelling were, or if the sky was really blue, even if there was a difference from smooth and slick. It was a mystery box with a lost key, kept secret, safe, locked away inside a room, stashed in the floorboards along with letters two people who never arrived home to meet them.

Nevertheless, he smiled . . .No, not smiled.

Grinned.

A storm brewed overhead, rumbling like an awakening giant ready to break his nights' fast. Brilliant flashes of lightning streaked through the sky as runners in a marathon, ready to tell the troops of victory. However, one force muted the others, proving a force of ten million to one, stronger than the gale and brighter than the light when occasion called. And so the rain came. Not in minute drops, specking the land with angel's tears, but as a mercury drape, covering the land fully, choking out life, and blinding children with acidic words, marring the youth for all eternity in is malevolence.

All those who had shelter enough as a sheet took refuge, sparing their backs for another night, another hour, regardless of the foolishness or frailty of the attempt. Those who had nothing stole away with Those that are underground as lambs to a slaughterhouse captained by vegans. Comedy was at its peak in the most dramatic of forms.

When the wind howled loud enough, the rain fought with its seven nation army, and the lightning cast itself upon earth at thunders groaning command, he would be out there, watching the symphony be composed, studying, grading, making sure that no scale was missed nor note turned sour. In that way, he kept peace with the place, being an audience, and in return, keeping a breadless life.

There were nights when the symphonies never ended, where his body would run ragged and bow to the forces that obeyed no one. In times like those, the mudded streets and gravel walkways paid homage to a battered brow and crystalline eyes that stared into oblivion itself and had yet to blink. Often he laid there for hours before moving, laying there as a fallen statue, motionless, dead to the world and its unjust prodding and poking about the acclaimed corpse of a titan.

Truly, when everyone had their say about the issue, he was free to hobble back on legs that never quite proved as strong as hoped to his own place to rest in the sleep of the near-dead until the sky's war drums sounded. He did so without complaint.

And as he did it, he grinned.

3-

His mind was reeling, a thousand thought passing though at any given instant and not a one had more than a quarter second's time to process fully and make room for the next. Without need be say, a headache was in order, and had been for the last decade and a half. Perhaps that was what had so worn him down over time. Constant fear, worrying, oh the illogical worrying that clasped his rest and peace in an iron fist, choking what life attempted to sneak by unnoticed.

Every living thing around him could see it. That slight drooping of the smile, the sad eyes, and the slope of the shoulder. In all honesty, he took the appearance of a distressed puppy, so pathetically depressed and trying not to go overboard that it was funny and had the misfortune of not being able to be enjoyed because of the nature of the sadness. Still, certain vertically challenged individuals tried on this unspoken courtesy of restraining ones mouths.

But he paid no heed to them nowadays. Life had gone so far and carried so much that the surprise was gone from everything. That was what he missed the most.

For all the glory of his heritage, the prominence of his house upon those who suffered and lived under it, even the gracious nature concealed under layers of leathery emotion and stone walls, he could not buy himself any of which he desired, even lusted over. The best efforts he put forth were not even paid for with words, but unrecognizable utterances and a series of confusing nods and shrugs.

Did He appreciate it? Would He even notice that something changed? If He did, would it even matter? Was He still mad? Mad even after all this time had passed? He probably was. It probably was not for the lack of trying that one green devil put forth, either.

"You're dozing"

Running a clawed hand over his forehead, he sighed and titled his head back, staring up at the branches of a tree most familiar. Practicing an old habit from the childhood he missed, he counted the holes in the leaves of the Maple. Though his vision had diminished ever so slightly over the years, he could still count caterpillar holes from fifteen feet up. Such was his pride today, and in that a sense of degradation.

"Hey, you're dozing off again"

Closing his eyes gently he took several meditative breaths before opening his eyes again and looking straight ahead at the city of the false and the home of the cowardly, but others knew it as Satan City. Handed many years to learn about the place, he soon figured he preferred absolute solitude to the loud streets, the loud people, and the loud, nerve-racking media. When given the choice to move in or stay in the so-called 'home', he chose the latter, for fear of a horror movie repeat.

All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy.

A sharp punch to the shoulder awoke him instantly, bringing such a wide-eyed innocent look to his features that it was shocking.

"I thought you wanted to see me?" The voice was soft, almost angered in tone, and so familiar he needn't open his eyes to recognize the person, but all the same, the blaring sight met him head-on.

In reply, he smirked and nodded before slowly rising to the occasion, bone popping quietly as he did.

The opposing woman placed her hands on her hips and shook her head, ocean hair barely moving from its fixed position. The smile on her face was sincere, as it had been so long ago, the slight streaks of a white were barley starting to take hold, and the downward pull on her body was still yet to completely begin, thanks to the wonders money and fame had to offer.

Nodding once in a minor apology, he made an effort to return the smile, though nothing became of it.

An uncomfortable silence was between them, for one was hesitant to speak, and the other was awaiting an invitation.

The wind blew through the trees of soon-to-be-summer, tearing the weaker buds from their surrounding and in such, ending their lives. While others lived on, becoming an unappreciated beauty in comparison to the marvels that run on batteries.

He couldn't take it. "Yes. . " He paused for an moment, eyes closed, breathing halted, organizing his entire year's problems into three simple words. "How much longer?"

Her lips parted slightly, head shifting to the side, but she dare not shake it. Brow raising in light of the bluntness, she took several steps back, rebounding on a heel to make them up again and stand stronger than she had before. Still, she to paused, bit her lip, and questioned her very answer. Was the truth really the best answer? Could a lie soften the blow? No. .It anything, it would cut him, both of them deeper than any blade ever could. She looked back at him with a face of stone, a practiced look that took years to achieve.

"Three months, then . . .variable."

His eyes rolled back in his head, face appearing as if he had been struck in the heart by a lead arrow. A soft gasp followed, belittling the bound scream that hid behind a quickly heating exterior.

"What do you mean?" The words were spat as acid.

Work worn fingers ran through fair hair as her jar hung ajar. With a roll of her shoulders, she convinced herself to continue, passing through the growing knot in her stomach, which threatened to conquer he eyes and set the tear drop prisoners free.

"Before the product line is cut." She stared him dead in the eyes, blue meeting onyx "He has that much time"

His jaw visibly clenched, all teeth grinding together, the corners of his lips fighting to keep control over a snarl.

She took several steps back, never breaking eye contact out of fear, but more so, in respect.

"What do you mean?" He repeated himself, although an entirely different meaning was in order.

Going on a limb, she inhaled and spoke, though silently cursed her very name for doing what she had to. "I cannot control everything. If I could, then things would be different . . . "

She was cut off by a gaze that could shatter the sturdiest of glass and make humble the proudest of lions.

Pupils shrunk, she resumed "CC&A is not a monopoly, Piccolo. We don't have control of the market. Even if so, one vote cannot persuade . . .Persuade those of the others. Even if so." She shook her head in defiance. "I'm not in control of the situation anymore, and you know that."

To much amazement, he nodded; neigh surrendered his ground, apparently. Taloned fists clenched and unclenched, teeth grinding together, head pounding to a constant beat, he looks up, staring at her before making a last walk past, holding an arrow back and concrete face.

"You brought him here, it's your fate to carry him out."

He left her there, standing by herself as darker clouds moved in from the north. When all was seemingly still, and she was there with no one around but the heavens and the earth, it rained.

2-

The crucifix he always kept around his neck weighed him down, cutting his very lungs off, so it felt. The day had been spoilt from the beginning. It was not tide nor tide that brought it on, but the lingering feeling that things were off. Nothing lined up, asymmetry replaced order, chaos, symmetry; even the arrangements were skewed. Shaking his head. He moved on, walking the sky's ground with others of his kind peeking out from their holes and wondering if they too would someday walk as people instead of creatures, and it not them, then their children.

He paced the rooftop for an hour's time, judgment and sanity long since abandoned him, not that it was a severe loss, what he had left was robbed by the necessity to live by pills, if living is what you could call it. Legs soon to buckle under the pressure, chest heaving from the plague'ed mind's toiling, he stood near the edge, twisted hands fiddling with the cross as though it were a rubbing stone. His thoughts were morose. To be or not to be, however clichéd the idea was coursing though his veins like vinegar gone bad. It was a serious thought, one that was permanent. Either he could stay and bow to infirmity one more day, or he could end it now with one single step and a sudden stop. The latter option seemed better.

He grinned one last time and cast his covered eyes to the heavens. "Should I?" The timid baritone asked as softly as possible.

A single drop of rain landed upon his nose, running down the side of his cheek before a multitude followed.

Chucking to himself he looked down as he shook with soundless laughter. Nodding, he stood upon the ledge; both hands tightly wrapped around his cross, and with a single motion, took a leap of faith.

Halfway through he realized all his problems could be solved.


	4. Why are you running?

Authors Notes: I apologize for any inaccuracies concerning the cannon Dragon ball Z/GT cast. I have watched little of both series and am prone to mistakes.

Repeat Waltz Chapter: 3

So, why are you running away?

"If you define cowardice as running away at the first sign of danger, screaming and tripping and begging for mercy, then yes, Mr. Brave man, I guess I'm a coward." – Jack Handy 

The fall of his pride had hurt him more than any dagger could possibly have. It was not the concrete that battled with his brow, nor the rail that cracked his shins, not even the slight protrusion of brick to confront his ego caused as much pain as the meeting of spectators to his performance and the limping away in defeat that soon followed. He could still hear the people's voices, the slight snickers and hushed phrases said between supposed sympathizers that looked upon him as more of a wounded dog than a wounded person.

Shaking his head slightly, eyes closed, afraid to face the harsh light that seeped through the cracks in the stucco walls in his domain, if that is what it could be called. His normally pressed lips twisted into a grimace, from there a silent scream as gnarled hands fumbled with the make-shift bandaging he had attempted to apply. He was alive though, so his voice was not to be heard in complaint of survival. The things he had been doing recently were upsetting. Not so much to the public, for they had little care of what the local Cretans were raving about, but to his self-awareness. The occasional tumble down the stairs or tripping over ones own feet were common, but wishing, no, practically begging for certain death through daredevil stunts, it made him lower to the ranks of a circus freak in his own mind, and that, that one thing, was eating him alive from the inside out. He shook his head again before tilting it skyward, passing a faint smile towards the heavens. A book he kept on the floor beside him was pressed between his teeth as he quickly tightened the bandaging before cowardice won out.

No blood was pooled on the floor, no splatters lingered upon the walls as a sign of a desperate battle, no artificial effects were staged, it was a portrait of the real. The walls were crumbling, a slight mold set upon them from seeping water, the concrete floors were dusted, chipped away at, and the lighting primarily came from one particular broken window that the local neighborhood kid had shattered to show his bravado to peers. Indeed, it was a glorious sight, only improved by the giant whose eyes were rolled back in his head from acts of temporary insanity and what could be labeled as self-torture for the greater good of his now limited life.

The city was peaceful, the sky, gray, but serene, was cloudless, uninterrupted by the lark or the raven. The streets were roamed by people huddled together in tight groups whispering among themselves, the shops were open with their best merchandise on display while busy little bodies scurried about to get a closer peek on what this month's hot new statement was. A few women modeled their summer apparel, which was mainly one of two colors and a shade. The young suitors were on the prowl, making suggestive motions to anything that had legs, hips, and other parts of the anatomy that were most pleasing to gaze upon from afar for extended periods of time.

Several tours were being carried out around various parts of the historical districts. One started downtown with the 'modern-day runes' as they were fancied by people who had yet to learn of the term "dump" or perhaps more fittingly "slum", however, the second was running uptown, where the aristocrats and local celebrities and officials were residing. It was safe to assume both of the tours were packed with as much false advertising as another, but then again, no one pays to hear the truth nowadays.

But by far, the most attractive displays were at the single museum that was not packed with half-baked works that passed for art, or a history preformed by the men who re-wrote it. The Museum of Unnatural Phenomenon's of Modern World was of ever increasing popularity. As the name implies, it was no more than an entrepreneur's dream of scraping that last red cent off of the common man, but for once, the exhibits were not forged. There were no cardboard displays, plastic skeletons, macaroni brains, or cheap ape-men suits. This time, as in the time of P.T Barnum, the abnormal were real, and for the living exhibits, they made a living, and a damned decent one too.

The displays of the dog-men and the Legionnaires were the most popular among the still-lives, but the true attractions came with the aid of motor carts, a flashlight, and several of Those who were paid to jump out and run amuck around certain blockaded areas to give the check drawers a thrill for their signature.

The Museum was slowly and surely turning into a theme park. Flashy signs covering the city had replaced the flyers that were posed in diners, a squadron of lack-luster employees had replaced a true showman and a fleet of computer-aided fun was soon to replace them.

While the whole idea apparently worked, there were variables that could not be calculated by the finest mathematics, and were yet to be worked by the age-old, and somewhat forgotten miracle of common sense. Not everyone who did not perfectly fit into the star mold that had been set enjoyed having people gawk at them, or be talked about for eons after a puppet master had shoved them upon the stage. Some preferred normal lives, paying their bills, eating at the burger joint, and yes, even yelling at the fuzzy ninja bastard of a cat that picked the couch as a relief spot for itself.

Many did not have this, a few did, and even more had killed for it and received the death penalty ruled by a human whose gun was the judge; of course the latter of the two was not tried with any criminal offense.

Of course these were the things on his mind as he lay there, fallaciously gazing at a set point in the wall where not but a faded poster remained to cover a drafty hole. Such things often hung heavily on his mind when he was resting against that wall, in that exact spot, staring at that exact place, and waiting for the same exact consequence of a scrambled sense of physics that lead to a scrambled body and an ego to match.

The speech played through his head again. It was not a new thing, shining gaudily for onlookers to come and watch with excitement, it was instead the tattered thing of yesterdays that laid in the corner covered with dust till the psyche forced the cover open and slowly read it aloud like a Bible verse repeated for the past millennia. It was the speech that was to rouse him up, prepare him for what was to come, and to make it clear that no salvation was to be at hand, that this was life, and that it was his fault for having to say this to himself again, but most importantly, that he was obligated to do this. It was the death speech.

"I'm going to die. This is the end. I'm sitting here, staring at the wall, wounds infected and numb while a fly buzzes overhead." It went so on and so forth, filled with comic sarcasm to raise his spirits, for what was death without comedy to brighten it?

Through the melodramatic, he managed to laugh as he wrapped his arms around himself to secure the leaking warmth that beat from his chest. Sighing ensued followed by cautious prodding of the gash on his leg that a heifer could comfortably fit in. He had to laugh at himself, for if it was not laughing, it would be crying, crying was apparently weakness according to one despise'ed man's philosophy, and weakness was inferiority, which came with being below man, and that which was below man was an animal. Man eats animals. Being the mystery meat in Burger Fool's value meal was not on a high list of priorities.

Eyes weighted down by sleep deprivation, he rested, tilting his head to the right, towards the tiny scraps of wood that passed for the resident table. He smiled sadly and nodded to it before adjusting his shoulders so he could rest in some amount of comfort. When he was silent, his body caught in a statue's ease and the uptown tour group had passed by, and the working day was coming to an end, the little brown package from only a time before remained unhampered with upon the table.

Pulling a few fly-away strands of hair from her face, Pan looked upon the skyscrapers in the distance as mock-castles and the dilapidated glory of the historical section they were in as the houses of peasants that longed for fine wine and dine that exclusive had to offer. Adjusting her camera, she caught several decent pictures to turn into cards later on. The trip here had been an arduous one, filled with schedule changes and angry employers that she would have to face in the near future, but that was of no consequence, for they had longed to come here ever since the television advertisement that aired a few months ago, and now they finally had enough time and money to enjoy the trip. Turning to her soon-to-be husband, she smiled at his serious concentration on a closed fishing shop that still had some well-kept items in it for display purposes only. Pursing her lips in a false pout, she beckoned him to come when his attention wandered her way.

He was a tall thing, well over her height, a trim catch that most women would not mind to settle easy eyes upon; his fine coffee complexion was unmarred by blemishes, chocolate eyes remained soft and doughy, high cheekbones and fairly wavy short hair accentuated the gentle point of his nose and the rosé lips that always seemed to be in a kindred smile. His dress matched his looks on this day. A light ivory buttoned shirt and a pair of rather decent jeans showed off what fitness he had the care to display for the public to see.

She herself was fair enough, though vestige of her once tomboyish self still clung to life in the lack of feminine curves and the nature of her roguish smile and cerulean eyes that held a glint of devilish charm. With hair pulled back behind her and loose dress shirt covered by a black thigh-length overcoat and tucked into khaki pants, she was sight to behold to the critiquing eye.

A flurry of pointing hands and one-lined jokes between them followed them as they poked fun at some of the tour guides and how they took so much time to explain the simplest things and how flustered they became when their conversation was belittled by the remarks and little phrases entertained the tourist far more than anything they had to offer.

" I really don't see why we didn't stop at the restaurant." Antony stated as though it were a great fact as he looked down playfully at the woman he dwarfed by better than a foot.

"I really don't see why we didn't stop at the gift shop" Pan shot back with such a timing that even a stand-up comedian would be happy to have claimed for their own.

"Maybe because they were selling little gummy demon candies with blue toothpicks stuck up their butts." He grinned remembering the poor teenager who got sent out to sell those things for an ungodly price.

"Well, the city's football team is the Devil's City Devils, what did you expect?" She simply shook her hair and took a picture of him while he wasn't anticipating it.

He stumbled backwards a step or two and wiped his eyes, still blinking from the initial flash. Grinning he shrugged it off, far too use to getting caught off-guard like that to really be mad about being temporarily blinded. "I was kinda hoping for some of those shrimp thingies that are wrapped in bacon, myself . . ."

She scoffed at that and shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye before pretending to be focused on the guide's talk about the significance of the old children's hospital and some of the kids that were there.

"What?" he paused for a moment looking at her with an arched brow " What?"

"Shrimp thingies." She grinned at catching the phrase.

Rolling his eyes and coughing out a soft chuckle, he too pretended to hold a remote interest in the attractions as he secretly sought out a place to get some decent food, or at least an escape route through to the last joint.

The tour was wrapping to a close. Some people had left early out of sheer disappointment, others out of being bored to death, but still, a few stayed out of either interest or to poke fun at the local color. The last stop was the designated 'ghetto' area, where no sign of the title's telling was evident. The area was in ruins. The street was brick, set unevenly and wearing shoddily as time progressed, the buildings were mere shells of what they had been only a few years back, and a certain stench hovered around the place as though serving as a warning to not venture in. No streetlights or car existed, nor fire hydrant or postal box. It was as though nothing but these failed steel mansions existed for blocks. It was not truly the lack of what the common was that served to dance upon sensitive nerves, or the decay of man's hard labor that aggravated the senses. It was the barren desolation of it all. Not child, not dog, nor faithful hawk set foot upon the area. Time had seemingly forgotten this place, cast it to the bowels of hell, and ripped apart the stainless steel, replacing it with flimsy tin and contraptions of worn bronze.

The people stopped as the guide did at the very alleys that lead to the section. It was an ill-lit scene, filled with garbage and ruin of all shape and background, a waste-dump if it even qualified for that position. Many couples looked at each other, silently asking if they really wanted to go down there, for many horror movies lead down a dark alley where someone was never seen again –alive.

Several people left with the second guide who was appointed to take people back to the bus station they had passed a while ago if they became spooked by the shambles of the city The ones who left had not the metal to go forth and conquer the unknown, but they, however, went on, determined to get their full zenny's worth out of their efforts. He took on the trash and debris before she did, clearing a small path carefully to avoid ruining a rather nice pair of shoes. A few minuets of careful tiptoeing and athletic leaps over 'hurdles' lead them to more of the same, only on an industrial scale.

He looked at her, she at him, and together they stared on, looking as though someone had slapped them in the face. Then they grinned as Antony pulled out the tour brochure to gaze upon the famous downtown area in all its polished, stainless glory and compared it to whatever you called the monstrosity in front of them. He knew the secret, for such information was found in books.

The man who was leading the tour, a gentleman of his forties, heavy set and unsteady at that, turned to face the people who had not read the entire tour package and were growing angrier by the second. His face was rimmed with a smile that not even the darkest of nights could burn out.

"As most of you know, this is the last official stop of the day . . ." he stated with the obvious, baritone voice ringing through the empty streets, piercing the silence like a lighthouse in the midst of a dark ocean. "And for those of you who read all the way through the package brochures and maps, you should know that this is not the downtown area. This area is what has been called the warehouse district for many years. Here you will find some of the most. "He stopped for a moment, as though his words had escaped him." . . .The most extreme residents of the city. You well know of the exploits of the Unnatural Phenomenon Museum . . ." He trailed off, speaking to the people who were slowly being disconcerted by this, yet had not the confidence to stand up and tell him their opinions as right-minded people would.

Pan sighed and waited for him to get to the point so they could go on with what they really paid to come here and see. Folding her arms across her chest and shaking her head, she glanced around, looking at rusted frames and lifeless halls and balconies that were exposed to the elements. Why any civilization would keep buildings in such devastation was beyond her wildest knowledge, but then again, if people would pay to see freaks parade around, then they would pay to see a bunch of collapsed buildings, she did. Something caught her focus. It was nothing but a diminutive thing lying on the corner of the street. Looking to be a discarded shirt or possibly a waste bag, it was not truly important, though fascinating. Taking her camera out of her pan pocket, she set the mode for the light and focus before taking a quick snapshot and returning the device to its resting place.

"Most famous of the attractions is the Lurking Daemon that resides in the 29 building, just behind me." He went on and motioned behind him to the specified area.

The place was a wreck. What had once been a fine and furnished building was in disarray. The fine mason work had been undone, the copper roofing had been stripped and the bare underlying work exposed and collapsed by the weather. A few shreds of drapery, a table or two, an old ceramic bowl, and a handful of other recognizable objects were picked out from the mess. Nothing seemed to be special about the place, for it looked as all the other downtrodden areas and was equally as poor in several different areas.

"The creature that is said to live within the walls of the 29 building is said to have caused the downfall of this City. All that you witness before you is accredited to him, from the rot of the Blackstone Factory, to the Casey's Diner at the end of Pine Street . . ." He went on, begriming the creature's title and somehow glorifying him at the same time.

Antony was beyond paying attention at the time and was apparently more concerned about the increasing volume of his stomachs' complains. His face was discontent, almost anxious as he stared rubber daggers into the man whose preaching never seemed to cease, nearly begging him to just get things over with and show the otherworldly creature already so they could be on their way. Glancing over to Pan, he saw the same thing on her face and in the ever-constant motion of shifting her weight from one foot to another.

Sighing and shaking his head for what he estimated to be the hundredth time this day, he tried to pay attention to the ridiculously boring guide, whose name was apparently Jared, according to the scratched name tag. Regardless of what was being said, Jared ranked as one of the most lackluster, dull, and possible one of the worst tour guides he had been seated with today. The one for the Museum was at least sardonic, and the one of the local open market place was a fun little thing that must have been a cheerleader in her past, but this? This was an old man whose voice was practically monotone, and seriously reminded him of a certain high school teacher who had put him through hell and beyond. The connection made him shudder.

"For safety reasons that have arisen as of late, I cannot allow you to enter the building, but the electronic display in the DC Diner just a few blocks away can give you a virtual tour, along with actual photographs of the daemon that lives inside." Jared braced himself; anyone who had sense enough could tell that he was preparing to be shot on the spot for being the deliverer of bad news.

Many people's jaws dropped. The contemptuous flare in their eyes was fierce; as though they were ravenous animals ready to tear their suspecting prey into shreds. A few people voiced their opinions vulgarly, calling Jared names most unspeakable, others called the tour agency and complained about it, others were simply put off in all respects of the phrase. Pan and Antony patiently waited like children readying for the final dip in a roller coaster ride.

The rattling of an old wind chime resonated through a building close by. The melody was nearly spastic, as though the very breeze that carried its tune started and halted at a person's command. Some of the notes were high pitched as the nightingales' songs, others were shallow as a whale's tune and drawn out to the farthest extent. The chime itself was hidden from view, caught in the grasping metallic fingers of the elder buildings. Attention drew to the 29 building, for unspoken agreement of the source laid upon it. The building was still as the grave, and silent more so. Only the slight rustling of the drapery and tugging at loose posters and advertisements sounded out for all to hear. Arched brows and quixotic stories formed on the edge of many minds.

And so the employees started working.

Sounds of deep voices whispered from within the 29 building, a few items could be heard being picked up and set down, a quiet conversation was erupting about the people outside and how rude it was to talk about things they knew not of. Confused looks spread through the diminished crowd as all eyes were cast upon a figure standing in front of the window.

It appeared to be a rather large man, clad in cloth of a deep forest hue and knee length boots derived from the Renaissance era. The upper body was unseen until it kneeled, showing its true size. Eyes widened and suspicious glances were thrown about like a hot coal among friends.

The creature's shoulders covered an area no less than four feet in width, the skin was rough in appearance, like jagged leather made from an olive material and yellowed by spell and exertion. Bare, defined torso laid exposed, showing layer upon layer of scar tissue that had half-healed and left black streaks and patching of skin in its wake. Musculature, though well developed, was twisted upon the frame tighter than wire in a piano and appeared as though an uncalculated move would snap the figure in half with the ease of a fist snapping a twig. The face remained out of focus, out of sight, hidden in the shadows that covered the body. Strands of black hair stuck out as the breeze caught them, telling tale of where the face laid.

It moved, rebalancing its weight, casting itself as another shadow against the background, rendering the people curious as cats to see what the next move should be. It began talking to someone again, describing the people outside, telling of what exactly they were wearing, which seemed to be upper and lower class, even the color of their eyes. Uninterested grunts were in reply.

The tour guide looked as if he had a wish to be shot on the spot and put out of his misery for once in this entire day. Wiping a hand down his face he to turned to look at the window and send quiet signals to Those that dwelled above in hopes that they could get on with things and do their work properly.

For the lack of actual showmanship, the tourist seemed occupied, snapping off pictures and the window where only a moment before the object of their interest had sat and observed them as though they were the ones of a peculiar nature.

Pan looked like she had been cheated without shame.

The thing appeared by the window again, kneeling just out of the line of sight for most and keeping well out of the light, for fear of exposing itself as fully as it had before. It was all practiced. "I do suppose you are wondering about wandering, no?" The bass voice was soft, almost hesitant to ask the question?

Not an answer was to be spoken for all the gold in the reserve.

The window opened slightly, shaking and creaking as though it was an act of torture to do so. Latching onto the windowsill with hands malformed hands, bony, twisted into twin cruel forms of what should have been, his palms encompassed the entire area, grip cracking the plastic with ease, it presented something new to be seen, a cheap, half-baked method of attraction, of alluring those who came to take pictures and in doing so, enhance their curiosity. Tiny chips of material fell from the window, plastic, bits of debris, grime, and other substances that could not be called sanitary by any stretch of the imagination.

As though on queue, another guide walked out of the building next to the one of concentration, wearing the navy dress that was common for the guides around this area to wear. He was a small person, standing slightly below five feet in height, with pale skin and eager emerald eyes drawn out by flaming red hair and a snarky little grin. Coming to stand by the other guide and notifying him with a slight pat to the shoulder that his work was done for the time, he soon gained the attention of a people who were perplexed.

Jared walked away, into the building that his fellow man had come from.

"My name's Aaron, I'll be continuing your tour through the Warehouse district. At this point of the tour, you have two options. You can either follow Jared through the twenty-eight building and back to the Museum, or you can follow me thought the twenty-nine building and meet your entertainers first hand."

Utter silence hung over the area. Slowly but surely, people moved towards the safer route to the museum, unsure if they really wanted to know about what was talking to them. At first it was only one or two people, but eventually everyone but Pan and Antony had disappeared into the other building. Aaron sent a disappointing gaze in their direction before looking to the ones that were left for an answer.

"Are you going to continue the tour?"

Pan sighed and shook her head at Antony who was fully ready to go inside and see what was behind closed doors. Grabbing his hand, she led him like a stubborn mule to the twenty-eight building, leaving him staring between her and the guide as though something horribly wrong had happened.

Once the door was shut and they were with all the other tour members, Antony stared at Pan; lips parted slightly, head tilted to the side.

"I thought you wanted-" He started but was soon cut off.

"I've seen it before, Antony." She sighed, face quietly upset about the whole matter.

"That doesn't mean I have, I really wanted to. . ." He placed an arm across his chest and looked behind him to the door they had just come through.

"You'll see it someday" She rubbed his back comfortingly "You'll get to meet one of them, I promise, okay?"

Antony looked down at her, confused, slightly taken aback by the statement, but chose not to ask and get on with things.

The walk back to the hotel was a long one. It was in the historical district, a fairly nice place too, equipped with a pool, gym, and a rather nice buffet for breakfast and lunch. The brick roads had taken a toll on their feet, for both had blisters that they would feel shoot bits of pain up their shins with every coming step, but it was almost worth it. The disappointment on Antony's face had not disappeared yet, and still made him look like a forlorn puppy with those big brown eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. Pan had no guilt about it though, for the tour hit a vein too deep for her to care to continue. She knew what lay beyond that window, what they were really like; in fact, she probably had met them once before, somewhere. It was a realm she did not want to be a part of.

The buildings to her right caught her attention. They looked like houses she had seen in her home, Satan City. One particularly reminded her of the jewelers Antony worked for when they met. She smiled faintly and stopped to look at it, piecing the fallen plaster and rusted frame together into a new building, instead of the seeing what really was.

Her fiancé stopped a few feet in front of her and turned halfway around, answering with a soft "Hmm?" before walking to her side again.

"Do you see that?" She questioned with a smile

"It depends, which dump are you talking about?"

She scoffed at his answer like she tended to before pointing to the place in front of her. "That, right there, Antony. Remind you of anything?"

He tilted his head to one side, then the other, resting his chin in his hand and shaking his head. "Eh, no?"

Pan chuckled softly and set shifty eyes to the scene around them to check for people who might be watching. Once sure the coast was clear, she started towards the building, resting her hand upon the doorknob and jiggling it slightly only to find that it was locked. She frowned.

Antony's eyes widened. "What are you doing?" He exclaimed as he rushed up to pull her back a bit.

Brushing his hand off her shoulder, she went down to the alley on the side of the building looking for another entrance. "I want to see what's inside, S'all."

"Pan, you're a little old for this, now come on, lets get something to eat already, I've been starving since the tour began." Regardless of what he said, he still followed close behind her like a shadow.

"Just because I'm not a kid doesn't mean I cannot have my fun once in awhile, does it?" She cast a pointed gaze to Antony as she came to a door.

"Fun? Fun! This isn't fun, this is known as breaking and entering." The look on his face was one of exhaustion, neither of anger nor frustration at the current battle between trying to get a meal and trying to appease the woman he loved.

"I haven't broken or entered anything yet, and neither have you." The last of the sentence was accentuated to catch his attention.

Antony groaned in disgust.

"Look, one quick little peak inside, then we'll go eat- your choice, okay?"

He nodded and stood his ground.

Turning back to the door, she caught sight of a thing most peculiar. There was writing close to the top, letters burned into the wood and weathered down by acid rain, barely recognizable anymore. Squinting her eyes, she tried to decipher the text letter by letter.

A deep, muted growl came from inside and jostled her from her reading. Antony shifted slightly to look at the door fully.

"Okay, we've heard what's inside, now seems like a good time to get that food, eh?" He clapped his hands once and started back towards the main street where there were people.

"No, get back here. Now." She snapped her fingers and pointed to the ground beside her. "Whoever's in there sounds hurt. What if it was a kid? Would you just leave them there? We're going inside."

"Kids don't growl like that, Pan!" He said in attempt to convince her gently before he had to resort to dragging her away.

"Mmhmm." She said as she twisted the doorknob and cracked the door open slightly as a precaution.

Antony winced and hurried to her side to protect her against whatever might be inside, for Gohan would have his head on a platter if she got hurt at his fault.

Pausing for a moment, she opened the door a bit more, just enough for her to slip in. The place was empty. Not a scrap of furniture was inherent in the domain, the walls were chipped, the floor undusted, broken glass littered the floor, spider webs were torn and remained frayed at the corners of walls and doors, it was as though nothing had lived or entered in awhile. If that was so, then why was this door, of all things, unlocked and easy to open?

Taking a few steady steps inside, she investigated the walls further, finding a few old stains upon the floor from what she guessed to be from cola, or possibly chocolate. The place had a certain smell about it. It was the smell of something old, abandoned, not a thing you could adequately describe with any taught phrase. A subtle hint of fresh cut mint hung in the air, giving minor refreshment to the otherwise ancient scent.

"Hello?" Her voice pronounced the word crisply, as though she thought she was in complete control of any and everything here.

Leather scraped against the concrete floor close by.

"Pan . ." Antony said quietly, nearly begging her not to continue of her own free will.

She looked at him with a softened face. She knew what he was worried about, she knew it would scare him if he had to confront that fear, but she had to know, for foolishness or lack of wit. She motioned to him to calm down a bit as she moved forward.

The scent of blood overpowered the mint and old dust the further she went in. Covering her nose with her sleeve, she stopped and listened. Shallow breathing was coming from the other room. Shallow, deep, breaths, that which could not come from a small child or a dog.

Dying to see what was behind the next wall, she pressed on towards the door, but was soon caught by two strong arms that lifted her off the ground and carried her a few feet back. She yelped before realizing who had her. She fought for a moment before getting shaken once to get her attention.

Antony's usually soft, mellow eyes were forced into a glare in light of her stubbornness, his smile was all but there, replaced by a grim expression that looked as though it could crack his face if he held it too long.

She stopped, completely and just looked at him.

"You're not going in there. I don't care what you say, I'm not letting you go in there, I can't" His voice dropped an octave. It was a tone he had never used before, on her at least; it did not fit him, not at all.

"This is not the time, someone's hurt in there." She trailed off in thought, speaking in fragments.

"Pan, I'm not letting you get hurt tending to something that you don't even know of. We're leaving, you can call animal control once we're out."

An object fell from the ceiling, coming in contact with Antony's shoulder as it fell before finally hitting the floor with a loud thud. He howled an expletive and dropped Pan to clutch onto his shoulder blade around the cut that was starting to bleed.

Rattled by the sudden fall, she rolled over halfway to look at him with jaw hung ajar. He was grasping at a wound, fingers coated thinly with blood as he applied pressure to try to make it stop bleeding. Her eyes soon traveled to the pendant on the ground that she assumed caused this somehow. It was a metal angel of some sort, appearing more so as a cross whose arms were twisted into wings.

"Are you alright?" She asked quickly as she got to her feet and forced his hand away from the cut to get a better look.

"No!" He shot back as he reluctantly let her see.

Taking out a few tissues she had in her pocket, she blotted away the blood to get a clearer look at the wound. It was a small abrasion, the size of a decent coin, a tiny flesh wound that bled far more than it truly deserved.

"You'll live." She sighed happily and went to pick up the vicious attacker off the ground.

"Oh, please seem a little less distressed, will you?" He answered as he kept the tissue in place.

Kneeling, she caught the cross in a hand, initially surprised at the actual weight of it, which had to be upwards of five pounds. Studying it over, she flipped it around to see if there was a name engraved on the back, as most specialty jewelry has. To her dismay, there was nothing, not even so much as a chain to go along with it.

Figuring that whatever was in here already knew they were there and could care less, she headed for the other room.

"Pan!" Antony yelled at her ran to cut her off a little too late."

Inside the other room a sleeping giant laid, arms wrapped around itself, curled claws kneading the air as the hands twitched as though they had a mind of their own. Grayed hair that was cut short stuck up naturally, unable to hide a face with angled features with the accuracy the slight bit of cloth that was wrapped around the eyes to spare them the light of day. Its skin was pallid, though the searching eye could find traces of green where the sun had highlighted them. With lips turned blue and skin badly chapped, it was a sad sight to behold. The creature's leg was tightly bandaged; thought the dressing had been soiled for what looked to be a goodly amount of time.

Her eyes softened as she knelt by the figure and brushed a hand over its cheek, only to see it was cold, near lifeless.

And there stood Antony, eyes shot wide open, mouth moving but no words able to form beyond disbelieving gasps. His mind could not quite process what was going on. Why was she touching it? Could she not see that that thing was dangerous? Why would she put herself at risk like this? Why?

"Pan! Get away from that thing!" He attempted to pull her back one last time but she stayed rooted to the spot, as though all his efforts meant nothing.

"Stop it, Antony" She did not bother to check the pulse, seeing as how anything breathing was still alive.

Taking out her cell phone from her pocket, she hesitated, trying to decide on whom to call. The local authorities were not an option, seeing how they treated people like this, the one person who stuck out above most had no phone, or any other service that would aid this situation, so she called the only person left, and the one who could help the most.

Her father.

Pan spent the next hour trying to convince Antony that this thing was not some dangerous, mindless fiend, but instead a person, or rather, a young boy. It was not the easiest of arguments to win, but victory was hers after methods of persuasion were set in and recollections of his past statements brought to light again. Eventually he even came to summon the nerve to touch the kid. Naturally, a storm of questions that she could not answer followed in the wake.

Gohan had taken an exceptionally long time getting here, but alas he did arrive with a truck and trailer that he had borrowed off of a good friend of his, for the standard car would not be near big enough to fit a person who was taller than the car was long.

As the truck ground to a stop, Gohan opened the door and stepped out, shoes making a distinct sound as he hit the brick. His body movement suggested that he was disgruntled by the news. Pan was the first to greet him outside, followed by Antony, whose brains were still scrambled trying to accept what was going on around him.

Quick conversation was passed between then as Gohan checked the boy, whose name was largely unspoken, out to make sure he was still alive. Kneeling, elbows balanced on his knees and chin cupped by his hands, he sat there for a time, trying to best judge how to take care of this matter without hurting the subject.

He snapped his fingers by the kid's ear to try and get his attention. "Seven?" He asked calmly, knowing that this was probably the best way to check and see if he was conscious.

When no answer came, Gohan stood and let out a pent sigh and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I'm going to need a hand from you Antony." He spoke sternly, commanding the help, not truly asking for it.

Choosing the lesser of two pains, Antony nodded and stood by Gohan, still edgy about the boy, apparently Seven, who was out cold.

"I'm going to grab his legs, do you think you could manage his shoulders?" Gohan did not bother to look at Antony; he kept on staring at the kid, a certain sadness passing over his features.

Kneeling once more, Gohan carefully picked up the legs with ease and waited for Anthony, who was trying to figure out exactly how to accomplish the set task. At first he tried pushing the body forward, only to find it too heavy for him to lift, an attempt to lift him up by the arm also failed, but loosened some of the fabric.

Rolling his eyes, Gohan looked to Pan who caught the hint immediately and with a bit of exertion, lifted Seven up off the ground before readjusting her grip, and leaving Antony's mouth agape and his masculinity with a bite taken out of it. In effort to redeem himself, Antony held the door open for the two to scuff through and made the trailer available for use without a word.

Fitting Seven into the space provided was a comical task, resulting with his legs stick out of the back and held in place with the aid of bungee cords and the use of a man to keep him steady while being moved in as cargo.

Once fit and secured, father and daughter sat in the cab, leaving Antony with Seven to make sure that he stayed inside the trailer and rattled his skull as little as possible. As the vehicle started up again, he could not help but to feel a tinge of irony. Sure enough, he got what he asked for, which turned out to be far more than he bargained to win. Gradually he began to be at ease with this . . .thing he had encountered, though calling it a person, much less a child was a hard task. It looked nothing like anything he was acclimated to seeing. Sure, the occasional anthropomorphic being, even some questionable beings had he laid eyes upon, but this took the cake, this was something he met first hand, something tangible, something that he was now, against his full will, aware of. Rubbing his numb shoulder slightly, he debated upon touching it. Sure enough, the action had been preformed before, but never in a questioning way. Slumping down against the back of the compartment, he rested, keeping one eye on Seven and the other closed, just in case he- it moved.

While they left, others watched from afar, their prying eyes staring at the spot the humans had been in only a few minutes ago. Most were timid, afraid of wandering from their refuge for fear that when they turned to venture back; it would all be lost from their reach forever. But one stood out against the crowd, walking peacefully and upright into the street to watch them drive away. He waved to them, even though they were far from view.

And when all was done and said, he took out his notebook and with a feeble hand wrote down everything he saw as he headed back home.


	5. And it's all Going to be Fine Again

Repeat Waltz: _Chapter Five_

_And it's all Going to be Fine Again_

By: Space-Weazel

"Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow.  
Don't walk behind me, I may not lead.  
Just walk beside me and be my friend."

_-Albert Camus_

_

* * *

_

Time passed slowly. From the moment they arrived at the clinic, everything seemed to grind to a halt after the initial hustle and bustle of people racing back and forth trying to control the 'situation' at hand. While all this was going on, Pan, Gohan, and the still slightly shaken Antony were placed into a waiting room to stay out of the way of business.

Relieved, Antony was the first to slump down into the chairs which were padded too lightly for his tastes, but then again, anything had to beat sitting in the back of a trailer that was speeding down a brick road that was slick with rain. His stomach continued to growl, although he paid no heed to it; given today's events, he had lost all of his appetite. The fact that his wound was still coated in congealed blood did not help improve his mood.

As Gohan reclined in the seat he had taken, Pan whipped out her ever-loyal cell phone and skimmed through the address book, seeing if there was anyone who she should call to inform about the kid's condition. Sighing softly in dismay as she saw no one who would really care and offer more concern than the false 'That's a shame, how is he?' remarks, she pocketed the device and sat, slumped over with her elbows on her knees and hands clasped together.

It fell silent.

"You know" Gohan started, keeping his eyes closed and folding his arms behind his head. "This isn't exactly the first time something like this has happened to him." His voice was pointed, but not harsh.

Pan snapped her attention to her father and jerked her head back in mild shock and interest.

"I don't particularly see why how many times 'something like this' has happened to him should matter. He deserves to be helped when he's in need just like any one of us does." She was bluntly defensive about this.

"Yes, but one would get the feeling he wants to injure himself after awhile. I mean, seriously, have you taken into account his history? The boy's not exactly safety conscious."

"Were you as a teen?"

"Need you ask?" He chuckled softly, yet never opened his eyes. "But in all honesty, you can hardly compare us. Given his situation, you would think he would be more sensitive with his actions and, oh, maybe not go leaping off buildings or running down the streets at night. Things that are simply uncalled for."

Pan hushed for a moment and stretched back in the chair, looking half defeated as she did.

The hands of the clock barely seemed to move.

"Like you never wanted some adventure in your life." The whisper could barely be heard as it escaped her chapped lips as though by accident.

At this, Gohan opened his eyes at last.

"Adventure or attention?"

The room fell uneasily silent.

Antony finally could not take anymore. With one swift motion, he rose to his feet and set out to the cafeteria. "I'll bring you back some things, I know how you both get when you're hungry." With that, he removed himself from the situation vanished down the whitewashed hallway.

Things settled once more. The awkward atmosphere permeated the area, hanging over all who were unfortunate enough to be shoved aside there. The smell of antiseptics and new plastic lingered and the quiet sound of people clad in scrubs scuffling around gave some relief from what would otherwise have been a horrible, deathly silence.

This place was always too quiet.

"When are you going to tell Piccolo?"

He sniffed the air, amused.

"Somehow I think he already knows."

Pan arched a brow and turned more to face her father. She never quite understood what he meant when he referred to his early mentor. "Oh?" she chirped in a half interested, half challenging note.

To this, Gohan only smiled and gave a slight nod down the corridor that was facing Pan's back. There, sure enough, stood the man of honor himself, looking as reserved and stoic as ever. He gave no hint that he had heard any part of their conversation, or that he had even been aware of their presence. His eyes were steadily focused on the wall that opposed him as he waited to be briefed on the state of affairs.

As Pan turned to question her father, she saw that he had already stood and was making way to his old friend, undoubtedly to offer consolation. After all this, she relaxed for a few moments, seeing as how there was little else for her to do besides read the crumbly, old celebrity magazines that had been placed on several stands nearby. There had been enough drama for her day.

By the time Antony returned with several vending machine sandwiches in hand three bottles of tea precariously wedged between his fingers, Gohan and Piccolo were farther down the hall, standing just outside the room where Seven had been deposited into. There was no word on anything yet, but the people entering and exiting had decreased by half, which was taken as a good sign.

Everyone seemed too calm about this. Taking a seat then leaning over to his love, Antony whispered as quietly as he could, as to not disturb any one else in the otherwise unoccupied room. "I want you to tell me what's going on here, Pookie." He slipped, using the pet name in public.

"There's nothing to tell." She blew him off "The kid hurt his leg badly and he is getting it fixed. That's about the end of it."

"Pan" His tone was firm, but not sharp. "You know what I mean"

Shifting her weight, she met his eyes. Her face softened and she released the breath she did not realize she was keeping. "Alright, alright."

She leaned in closer to Antony, so they could speak one to one very personally.

"You see that tall, green man?"

Antony made a face and nodded slowly to Pan, idly wondering if she thought he was blind enough to not notice an angry looking seven foot tall person standing in plain sight.

"Well, he's Seven's surrogate father. It's a long story; I don't want to re-tell it. Lets just say the two end on very different terms."

He nudged her gently when she fell silent, but no other words escaped from her lips and he thought it wise to drop the subject for the time being.

A young man dressed in worn blue jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, which was marked with Legion's signature winged cross on the back and red star that was encompassed by a green circle on each arm entered the building. With the hood pulled all the way up, it was hard to distinguish his features, even as he sat down in a chair at the far side of them. Tangles of dark gray hair and visible spots of tea green skin spilled out from under the hood, a Roman nose jutted out as well, and a set of the lightest rose-colored lips could be seen bearing a unusual smile. The person could barely have been older than fifteen or sixteen, guessing by his rather lanky, growing figure. He held a hardback notebook at his side; a pen was stuck on the outside of it, with the cap latched fast to the cover.

Antony couldn't help but stare at the fellow for a moment or two. Normally, he was not one to encourage such activities, but given the circumstances of today, he honestly failed to care about his own policy. Pan, too, glanced up at him, but lost interest after a few seconds. Turning to her, he whispered, "I wanted to know about them"

She tapped his leg roughly and shot him a glance that could sour fresh milk. "Not now" the answer was spat quickly with a bite in it.

"Hey, I've been a good sport about this and I think I deserve some answers." Placing the food on the stand between them, he too lounged in the seat.

"It's rude." Her eyes dodged quickly to the stranger who sat across the way.

Antony was muted, as though a spell had been cast on him. Now was not the time nor place to argue. Rarely could he budge the stubborn girl in private, in public she was twice as bullheaded. Sometimes he swore he was fighting an uphill battle with a one-man army.

* * *

"Piccolo" Gohan rested a hand on his friend's shoulder and for a moment, nearly rested his head on the soft and familiar fabric of his gi, but hastily recoiled. "My friend," he started again, stumbling over his words "I . . . I . . . Don't work yourself up about this. He'll be fine, it's just a simple break, and it will be okay. I'm sure."

With a more than amused smirk, the Namek turned to look to the younger man. "It seems like you're the only one getting worked up over anything."

The demi-Saiyan choked out a laugh.

"I suppose there's just so much going on lately . . . Just so much everywhere. The kids are growing up, Trunks is inheriting Capsule Corp, Goten's finally found a decent girl, Mom's getting better . . .And my baby's happy . . ."

Piccolo nodded as he listened to the boy, or rather the man who he still envisioned as being a boy, vent his frustrations. He did not offer any advice, for none was asked, but he stayed there, watching Gohan pace and fold then unfold his arms, at times making vehement motions in the air to illustrate his point.

"I don't know" Gohan stopped walking and reclaimed his place beside his companion. "Everything has changed so much; for the better, but still." That infamous smile flashed on his face "I almost miss the days when the biggest thing I had to worry about was some 'unstoppable' force trying to destroy Earth."

"You must be crazy" Piccolo spat without hesitation or consideration to the statement.

Gohan laughed again, this time more at ease. "Yeah, I guess I am."

At last, the door of the emergency room opened and several male nurses exited and went out of sight. Piccolo was the first in the room after Dr. Thompson beckoned them both to enter. Gohan shot a look at Pan, suggesting that she and her hubby stay out of this one, before he followed suit.

The room smelled heavily of cleaner fluid, antiseptics and rotten blood with the faint scent of mint that was brutally overpowered and nearly unnoticeable. Despite what efforts had been made prior to their entrance, it was a fairly clean area. No bloody rags were lying around, every surface seemed to have been disinfected, and perhaps most surprising of all, there seemed to be no signs of a struggle of any kind. For an instant, both of them wondered how heavily they had drugged the kid.

Seven was sitting upright on the examination table in a pair of knee-lengths shorts they had put on him. His sickly, bare torso was strewn with various bandaging and stitches and shaded by bruises of all hues from black to blue. One could not help but notice the scars that riddled him like mock patchwork. He seemed to be a forlorn, old rag doll sitting there with the right leg propped up against his chest, the other rigid and held straight with a splint on the upper part of it. His taloned feet tapped against the cool metal rhythmically as he monitored the new presence in the room. Gaze never shifting from an undeterminable point in space; he sat there in silence, lips drawn tight enough to crack his face. He was pouting.

The doctor sifted through some papers on the counter before picking up a clipboard with the information he was looking for.

"He's in pretty good shape, considering the fall he took. His left femur was broken when he hit the cement, but it's a reasonably clean break and it has already started healing. So long as he stays off of it for a little bit, he should be perfectly fine. The wound really looked much worse than it was. A piece of piping apparently acquainted itself with his thigh sometime in all this, but that has been taken care of." He chuckled to himself and motioned to the counter where a sizeable chunk of broken pipe was setting. "Yep, caught him pretty well there, it did."

All the while Seven sat there without making a sound, although his shoulders slumped as he listened to the man speak.

"All in all, he'll be fine. There are some preexisting problems that have not gotten too much better, but give it some time, and with the prescriptions I'm writing him, he'll be happy as a clam."

Extending a hand, the doctor patted Seven on the back; the motion was rewarded with a shiver and the sound of vertebrae popping back into joint.

Piccolo's inkwell eyes looked the boy over from head to toe. Even though relief flooded his body, he scoffed. As expected, Seven turned his head to face his guardian, even though his gaze was off to the side. For once, his expression eased, not quite into even the faintest of smiled, but the near grimace no longer reigned over his features. Gohan, not pretending to understand the action, stepped closer to the kid.

"We were worried about you." Son said calmly as he examined the bandaged leg.

"You were." The words were spat almost indignantly in that cold, restrained baritone. Seven made sure he accented the first word in an especially harsh manner.

_That little shit. . _Gohan though, but failed to voice his opinion and smiled curtly in light of that.

"Anyway, I would like to address the matter of his height and weight." Dr. Thompson turned to a graph chart. "You see, Seven stands at 9'6" he pointed to the number on the chart. "But the average weight for creatures like him for his height and build is between 378 and 420." Again, he slid his finger over to the corresponding number. "Seven only weighs . . .Three twenty, even. We'd like it if he'd gain some weight, it would greatly improve his health and the next time he falls, he might not get banged up quite as easily."

"Mrhh. . ." The little, disgusted sound silenced the doctor for a moment.

"Might I suggest sending him to the rehabilitation center on the outskirts of Satan City? It's peaceful, away from everything, and since he's a registered Legionnaire, it's free of charge, so long as he holds a job there. I would recommend it highly, if you would only consider . . ."

Seven was still.

"No." The Namek's answer was blunt enough to catch the man off guard. "I have seen what they offer, I do not approve."

The place they were talking about was little more than a colony of 'defective' projects that had been tossed aside instead of disposed of. There was no rehabilitation involved in the torment of those beings. Day in and day out, they continued on, clinging to the scraps of their lives that they clutched as gold in greedy hands. The overseers were not kind people, but money driven sadists, who would as soon drown the helpless worker for a pretty coin as they would anything else. No, that was not a fate to be imposed on anyone.

"Okay then." Retreating from his prior position, Dr. Thompson gathered his papers up and prepared to exit the room. "If you will listen to this, he needs a high protein and calcium diet, and strength training three to four times a week couldn't hurt." With that, he was out the door and lost down the hallway.

It was only a few moments before one of the nurses that had previously tended to Seven entered the room, carrying with him a change of fresh clothes, all marked with the traditional Legion signs, of course, and Seven's overcoat, which seemed to weigh his small frame down. He set the items down in a chair right inside the door and shook his arms out, looking happy to be rid of them. "Mr. Daimaou, there's some forms we need you to sign before you leave here, it'll only take a couple of min-" He was cut off by the Namek, who simply brushed past him as though the boy was no more alive than the doorway itself.

Seven's head bowed subtly.

The nurse shot a confused look down the hall that the Namek had turned down before glancing up to Gohan. "I'm afraid we won't be able to release him for awhile. His condition warrants a few days stay, just to get him re-hydrated and make sure that he does not do anything that would immediately compromise his health again." Pausing, he sighed and looked towards his patient. "-As he is known to do."

A smile rose, but from neither of the conversationalists.

Gohan nodded slowly and thanked the young man before returning his focus to the chief reason for his stress today. Letting the nurse go about his business elsewhere without any further interruption, he picked up the top and pant set that had been set so kindly on the chair and tossed them against Seven's chest. For an instant, he idly wondered how the kid managed getting dressed with claws that were fit to make cloth confetti out of any apparel in their way.

"You know, things would be a lot easier on you if you dropped the pissy attitude and actually acted grateful for something at least once in awhile." The put-off Saiyan rested his back against the wall and placed his hands inside the pockets of his jeans.

Halting his attempt to delicately unfold the top given to him, Seven tilted his head and looked up out of habit. With a faint smile, he shook his head sadly and continued on. "Do not fault me that you fail to see that I am grateful for everything."

"Mmhmm, I can sense the appreciation. Do yourself a favor and just stop with this . . . this" He motioned in the air, as though it would help get the point across.

"It seems you're the only one getting worked up over anything." Seven met Gohan's eyes dead on as he reiterated with a Cheshire grin on his face.

Holding a white-knuckled fist at his side and eyes soundly closed, Gohan let out a slow, seething breath through his nose. His lips were held in a steady line, as seemed to be the fashion of the day, and he stood there, not saying a word or moving. He didn't want to give the kid any pleasure that might be derived out of a brazen response.

Minutes passed in the blink of an eye.

"You'll see it someday, kid." An honest smile "I'll catch you later, and take care of yourself. Try to avoid sparring with gravity next time." With the farewell wave of a hand, Gohan was gone, intent to make his way home.

As Son made his was past the waiting room and to the exit, a pale face smiled, watching him go. Quaint lips mouthed a deadened word, and fingers that ended in tapered claws coiled out of the gray material hiding them away from the world. With a steady hand, the creature opened the notebook it held so dear, turned pages with the utmost care, and grasped the pen held prisoner in the cover. Hand trembling, it wrote down all that it perceived.

And when all was said and done, when all the visitors had left, and the cleaning crew was making its final round for the night, it stood, and like the others, and left to make the last train home.

* * *

"Impossibilities are merely things which we have not yet learned. " -- _Charles W. Chesnutt_


End file.
